


from the desert to the tower

by wintercealde



Category: Robin Hood (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-22
Updated: 2008-08-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 01:23:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintercealde/pseuds/wintercealde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gratuitous post-2x13 wish-fulfillment.  Marian's not dead, and she and Guy have a swordfight.  And sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Huge, huge thanks to my beta, [](http://starbuck-a-dale.livejournal.com/profile)[**starbuck_a_dale**](http://starbuck-a-dale.livejournal.com/) , who makes things make sense and is far too nice. Concrit is always welcome.

“I love Robin Hood.”

“You lie,” he says, but the total conviction in her voice pulls him up sharply. She sets her jaw, a gleam of triumph in her eyes, and he stops. He almost doesn't feel the arrow entering his shoulder like liquid fire, but then all of a sudden the pain explodes through his body and in the haze he can feel himself yanked back, hard, and then the world goes black.

*

Guy awakens into darkness. His throat is dry, his skin clammy with the night breeze coming in the open tent. And then the pain hits him like the flat of a blade to his head, and he gasps.

“I should have left you to die,” he hears Vaysey say, and as his eyes adjust he sees the Sheriff's figure coalesce just inside the tent flap.

“Why didn't you?” he asks through clenched teeth, gingerly exploring the arrow wound with his left hand. It has been cleaned and bandaged, but he can't move his right arm.

Vaysey turns to look at him, and his cold expression is eerie in the dusk light. “Because, despite your many idiotic failures and your stunning inability to keep that woman from getting under your skin, you are still more useful to me alive than dead.”

It is a marked turnabout from the summer, when Marian had to save him, and it is only later, during the agonizing, sleepless night, that he realizes Vaysey is alone here but for him. The Saracens are dubious allies at best, treacherous at worst.

*

They move the next night. Vaysey is nervous; clearly he wanted to leave before this. Even with the delay movement is difficult and painful for Guy.

“But where are we going?” he asks, when Acre has disappeared behind the dunes and all that surrounds them is white sand and purple sky. He could be lost here, gladly, forever. “We cannot return to England.”

“Which is why we're not going to England.”

*

She will never forget the way he said her name, with that gasp of relief, and how tightly he held her.

“I could have lost you,” Robin says into her hair, and then he turns her around and cups her face and showers it with kisses, bow dangling from his elbow.

“But you didn't,” she says, and then their attention is claimed by a groan from Richard and footsteps pounding on packed earth.

*

“Let's get married,” Robin says later that evening, his fingers stroking over hers. “For real.” He hasn't stopped touching her, and she's not sure whether it's from a feeling of relief or happiness that she finally told Gisborne. The latter annoys her slightly, but she's not sure why.

“No,” she says, but she places a kiss on his temple. “We had a plan, remember?”

“You were willing to marry me this morning,” he says, and she sees Much's eyes on them over Robin's shoulder.

“Because we were going to die. But we didn't, and we have work to do. But it will be so soon, Robin!” And it will be; alarmed at Robin's news Richard has decided to speed up the peace negotiations with Saladin and is making arrangements to leave at the end of the month.

She runs her thumbs over his callused palms. “I want my marriage to be joyous. I will not be able to relax, knowing the Sheriff is plotting against the king.”

Robin is clearly unhappy but he doesn't press the issue. Instead he buries his fingers in her hair and draws her close to kiss her. His lips are soft and insistent and taste of salt and wine, and when he flicks his tongue over her bottom lip she feels a stab of regret. But Richard has noticed them kissing in the corner and says something very close to lewd so she draws away and her resolve is back in place, even after she dreams of callused hands on her breasts that night.

It is only in the wee hours of the morning, when she is woken by the soft call of a desert bird, that she thinks of Guy's face and the devastation she has wrought. It worked, she tells herself over and over again, and righteousness is her talisman.

*

“You will NOT send me off like some—”

“Marian, we'll be only a few days behind you, a week at most. The peace is concluded, there's no reason to linger.” He has spoken to her fear, her uneasiness of him with Richard in this place. But he's right, it's finished, even if not really resolved, and she knows the only direction his footsteps will turn is home.

So he kisses her and she packs the things she has acquired in the past few weeks and he sees her to the port. They board a ship for Rome, the awkward trio of Marian, Allan, and Little John, and they stand on deck and watch until Robin and Much disappear into the brilliant morning sunlight.

It is clear John doesn't trust Allan yet, but he isn't openly antagonizing. Mostly they speak little, but Allan helps when John gets seasick, and she can tell that eventually the bond will mend.

She wishes, desperately, that she could think of something to say to Allan. But there's little that words are enough for, and beyond what is necessary they share only the occasional guilty look. They won, and they are glad they won, but it has not made them happy.

*

In Rome they are greeted by the Queen of England, who has never seen her realm, and Richard's sister Joanna, who smiles sardonically at the mention of her brother—the brother who took her dowry, ended her almost-romance with Philippe Auguste, and attempted to use her as a bargaining tool with Saladin's brother. For the first time in her life, Marian thanks God she was not born to greater privilege.

They linger there a few extra days, hoping Richard's fleet will arrive, but it doesn't. Finally they book passage; John is restless and they have only so much money. Allan comes to her quietly, offering to keep them in coin, but she knows it is better to move on.

Marian stands on deck as they put into the sunny harbor of Marseilles, this time able to enjoy the dramatic view: to their right are low, rocky mountains; to their left is the fortress of the Knights Hospitaller. In between is the city, teeming with activity and movement and languages they hadn't expected to hear once they left the Holy Land. It makes John uneasy. Allan however is in his element, and by the time they leave he's already telling jokes in Occitan.

They go overland to Paris, passing pilgrims on their approach to the city up the rue Saint-Jacques. They have left color and warmth behind them with the Mediterranean, and the city is muddy and grey. Yet for all the bleakness of late winter, the city holds as much marvel as Rome or Marseilles. And it is beginning to sound like home.

South of the river is the growing university, where Latin is spoken in a dozen different accents and Marian is beside herself with joy at being able to understand most of what she hears. It is almost as sweet as the French that is the language of the common folk. The accent here is quite different from that of home but at least it is familiar. It is not the whispering, guttural sounds of Arabic or the round, rhythmic syllables of Romanesco or Occitan, from which she can sometimes pick out words; it twangs and stops and slides over her tongue with the sweetness of familiarity. Finally, in this foreign place, they begin to feel that home is not so far away.

Before they go they stop to see the astonishing building rising over the river. It is no taller than buildings they had seen in the Holy Land or Rome, but it is something completely new: the lines seem to draw their eyes up to heaven, even beyond the marvels of the enormous windows and the slender, elegant bridges of stone that arc in support around the apse. They leave feeling solemn and proud. The bitterness of compromise with the Turk fades away: surely their God is magnificent, who has inspired such peerless architecture.

*

They charter a ship to take them down the Seine, and after days of navigating the river's twists and turns they are glad to stop at Rouen. They are asked their names by the dock official, and later that night a messenger comes to them at the inn with an invitation for the Lady Marian from Robert de Beaumont, Seneschal of Rouen. She really wants to sleep and to return to Nottingham as soon as possible, but it would be beyond rude to refuse. So they pack their things up and head into the chill night air.

It is not yet so late when they arrive, and the court is still in high spirits. Marian is very glad she acquired new gowns in fine silks in the Holy Land; if she'd come from England she would have felt like a provincial. Robert sees her enter and comes to greet her as she is announced, but his eyes slide away for just a moment and she follows his gaze. Realization and horror hit her like a hammer stroke when she sees Vaysey there, at the side of the hall. Her eyes dart over the crowd and there, turning as if time itself has slowed, is Guy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gratuitous post-2x13 wish-fulfillment. Marian's not dead, and she and Guy have a swordfight. And sex.

Allan grips her arm, hard, and Marian wants to run just as much as he does. John's stayed out in the kitchen and she feels horribly exposed. But she shakes off Allan's grasp and kisses the Seneschal in greeting as if nothing is wrong. There is his lady-wife, and here his youngest daughter, not yet married. Marian responds to pleasantries while searching for a way out of the situation, but then she sees a servant carrying her things through the hall and she knows that she is stuck.

*

There she stands, the woman he has loathed and loved, just inside the entryway. She is resplendent in aqua and gold, tired from travel but beautiful as ever. His eyes move slowly up to hers and there they are arrested, for some energy, some overwhelming force of emotion vibrating between them holds them immobile. It is only when she drags her eyes back to Beaumont and his wife, swallowing visibly, that he becomes aware of the pain shooting down his right arm. He has crushed the pewter goblet in his hand. Guy drops it and stands, barely managing a nod to his conversation partner, the countess Alais. His hands shake, his breath is shallow; he must leave. He doesn't give a damn if he's thought uncourtly.

*

In her bed, curled tightly to avoid the elbows of her bed-mate, Marian stares into the darkness and lets herself remember that day for the first time.

She is dizzy with heat, with fear, with freedom; there is pounding in her head: the urgent slap of feet on stone, the steadily increasing pulse of her blood, the desperate thought repeated over and over again, stop this. And then she sees Richard, prone, and Guy with sword outstretched and shining in the unbearable sun. Clarity resolves around her faith in Robin, for that is all she has left. She will do whatever it takes to stop this.

She thought she could reason with him, but he is beyond reasoning: his goal too close at hand. And so she means to shock him out of his trance, and she does, but she hasn't thought far enough ahead to prepare herself for the emotion that flickers across his face. His eyes fly to her, his attention snaps from his goal, and disbelief gives way to devastation a fraction of a second before she hears Robin's arrow zip through the air. She has a fleeting moment to fear that the arrow flies too true—but by some small mercy Robin has not aimed to kill. She sees Guy fall to his knees and then there are arms around her and shouts, relieved laughter and voices thanking God. When next there is a break in the crowd, he is gone. And then Robin's hands take her face again and the sorrow drains away.

*

“Goddammit Gisborne, stop pacing!” Guy halts where he stands, running his fingers along the mantelpiece so he doesn't have to look at Vaysey. It is late, but his mind is racing, and he's been moving around the room with his whirling thoughts while Vaysey attends to correspondance.

“You should have told me,” he mutters.

“You would only have been insufferable for longer. Two days, Gisborne,” The Sheriff says, his voice lightening almost to a sing-song, “Two days and you can have your revenge. On her and Hood, all at once. How delicious will that be?”

*

The Seneschal invites her on a walk the next day. She responds graciously to her host and he shows her to the ornamental garden. It is neat and tidy and probably lovely in summer with its small fruit trees and ordered hedges, but now it is the end of winter—Christmas was lost somewhere in the days of travel and worry and despair, days that bled together in a dark dream she has tried to forget—and wet snow still lies on the quiet beds; only here and there do tips of crocuses and iris and tiny hard buds of linden trees lend any color to the scenery.

"I must confess," Robert begins, "that though you are more than welcome to my hospitality, I asked you here for a reason."

Marian's mind flicks back to his other guests and she feels for the reassuring hardness of her dagger under the folds of her mantle. She looks at him coolly; his expression is shrewd but, she thinks, tired.

"The Sheriff of Nottingham has not been here long, but he has brought much interesting news." Marian's eyebrows shoot up before she can control her reaction. Robert notes it; anyone with a position as delicate as his must be extremely perceptive.

"Yes, he is the reason I was made aware of your presence, but not my reason for bringing you here. You are safe in my halls." She lets herself relax the tiniest bit.

"So why did you ask me here, my lord?"

He stops and fiddles with the end of a pear-tree branch. "You must know that I am in an interesting position. Both King Philippe and Eleanor want my allegiance, though their reasons change as quickly as the political landscape. Returning from the Holy Land as you are, I assume there is much you do not know." He begins to walk again and tells her of John's efforts to win over the populace in England, which are surprisingly successful; the shifts in power there, Eleanor's desire that the Norman castles be fortified, and John and Philippe's collusion.

"I am loyal to Richard, my liege lord and the man who gave me this position," he continues, "but Philippe is his lord, at least where these lands are concerned. I am also in the difficult position of playing host and jailer to Philippe's sister on Richard's orders. You can imagine how much Philippe likes that—which is made more worrisome by the disturbing reports I've heard about John's recent activities, including the possibility of movements against Richard's continental possessions.”

She sucks in a breath—has the situation truly grown so dire?

"In sum, my lady, I wish you would tell me what you know of Richard's plans. Is the fight successful in the Holy Land? Does he return soon? If there is trouble—political or military—I can hold out for some time, but I cannot last indefinitely."

Marian walks in silence a few steps, trying to figure out his aims. Does he mean what he says? Is he one of John's allies, trying to get information from her? That niggling worry that Robin and Richard will linger in the Holy Land appears again, and she tries to quash it. She knows, at least, what Richard's intentions are and if he makes good on his promise—he took the cross years before he was able to go on Crusade, surely that is an indication that he is a man who keeps his word—being honest cannot harm them.

"Peace has been concluded. The King was set to leave Outremer shortly after us." His progress would be much slower, with the masses of men and equipment and the family and allies scattered across Europe to whom he would have to pay visits on his procession home, but surely even the news of an actual return—coupled with the Pope's stern warnings—would deter any actual plotting.

He takes her hands in his. "Thank you, Lady Marian," he says, and she wishes she knew him well enough to read exactly what was in those words.

*

Marian sees him from a distance before he can see her. Her heart begins to pound, but she stays her course. I saved the king, she tells herself, and she finds with sudden surprise that she bears Guy no anger. Not for her months of imprisonment, not for his attempt to kill the king. She should, but it has been burned away with heat and travel and guilt.

Guy walks with the stiffness of a convalescent, holding his arm close in what Marian imagines—hopes—is only habit at this point. Then his eyes focus on her and he turns deliberately and walks away.

 

She is not prepared for how hollow it makes her feel.

“Leave him be,” Allan tells her at the midday meal, when her glance has strayed one too many times in a particular direction.

“But I should—”

“He's not gonna want your apologies,” Allan says, and she has a hard time meeting his eyes. He is right, of course, but she has spent so many years acting conciliatorily towards Guy that it feels strange to do nothing about the breach between them, even if it is irreparable.

She does not see how often Guy's gaze lingers on her, and how he curses himself every time it does.

*

The next time they meet, Guy does not see her, and thus cannot avoid her. She doesn't see him either and runs smack into his shoulder. As he hisses in pain, unable to control his reaction, her eyes widen in alarm and then soften in sympathy. The last thing he wants is her goddamned pity.

“I am sorry,” she says quietly.

“Of course. Wonderful,” he mutters as the pain subsides, attempting to sidestep her.

“Guy,” she says, and hearing his name on her lips is the most wonderful and painful thing he can imagine.

He turns, more because he's curious how she's going to try and backtrack than because he actually cares or will believe what she's going to say. She seems to know that, and her expression crumples a little. He feels a spike of petty glee.

“I am glad your wound is healing well,” she says after a moment. Christ, will she never cease? But he gathers his defenses around himself again and bows slightly, mockingly. And then continues on his way.

*

That night she dreams of Robin. He stands behind her, running his hands down her arms. He kisses her temple, her cheek; nuzzles her neck through her hair.

“Come with me and you shall be Queen of Acre,” he whispers. “Come with me and we shall free the Saracens from taxes.”

But her contentment turns to despair, for she cannot rise from the chair she sits in. Can he not see her skirts are weighted down with embroidery frames and babies and keys, with cheese molds and spindle whorls and dark, heavy loaves of bread? He tugs at her hand—she cannot stand—and then he is gone.

*

They wait in the dark, in the cold. The fire is low so as not to draw attention. Thoughts of her, so close, keep flitting into his mind and he keeps shoving them out; he's got no clue what he's feeling anymore. Guy tries to draw the cold inside himself and goes over the plan in his head yet again. The number of stairs to the towers. The pattern of lefts and rights to Alais's room. Those three who should not be here, who could prove dangerous.

It's as if Vaysey has been planning for this. He couldn't have, Guy knows, but he also knows he will work any situation to his own advantage. For weeks he's been grinding Guy down when he doesn't think he could be ground down any further. For weeks he's had Vaysey's voice in his ear, mocking, then soothing, drawing his ire and then tempting him with visions Guy's not quite sure he cares about anymore. All of it revolves around, comes back to, her. He wavers from the fire of anger to ashes of despair. He's ready for it, for something, anything, to be over.

*

Marian wakes despondent, unsettled, and tosses and turns for what seems like hours. Finally, after a pointed tug on the blankets from her bedmate, she rises and pulls on her clothing. The air is cold, but the view from the battlements of Rouen, coloured softly in shades of grey and purple with the silver river threading through it, is worth it.

She finds Little John standing atop one of the corner towers.

“You can't sleep either?”

He's wrapped up in his cloak, staring out over the city, and he shakes his head.

“I've slept in the forest too long to be comfortable inside stone walls.” And then, after a pause, “They remind me of Nottingham.”

His eyes go to her, and she knows he's questioning her decision to stay. Marian deliberates: If they are wanted here, there is no way they will be able to leave. But the Seneschal has declared his loyalty and gotten his information, and there is no reason he should keep them. Every reason they should go. She will speak to Robert at a decent hour.

Then something creeps into her consciousness, something soft, distant, but rhythmic, triggering warning signals. She listens hard, and her eyes find John's as realization hits them at the same moment: hooves. Many. It is not right for this early.

From their vantage point they scan the city. The sound is not localized, but it is growing louder. Then she sees a group of mounted men crossing a square. Two more, there, on a street leading to the castle. Marian whips around to see if the guards along the wall have noticed. What she does see is two familiar figures in black, moving silently through the courtyard. They are armed.

“I do not like this,” John says.

“Nor I,” Marian replies, as they watch Vaysey and Guy confer for a moment before splitting up. Guy makes for the stairs to the battlements; Vaysey has rounded the keep and is out of sight. What is most worrying is that both seem to be heading towards the barbican.

“Robert warned me that there were dangerous things happening. John, if they are planning the treachery I think they are, we cannot let them do this.”

John nods, his face grim. “I'll wake Allan.”

“I do not think we have time, not if they're going to open the gate. You find Vaysey. I'll go after Guy.”

“Lady Marian—”

The anger she thought she'd laid to rest is back; it was banked but not extinguished, and when she looks at John her face is flushed and furious.

His eyes widen; obeying those above him in the social rank is still a deeply ingrained habit. “You are not even armed,” he says quietly.

“I will find a weapon,” she replies, voice steely. They nod to each other, and then race down the tower stairs.

Marian cuts through the keep and in the hall finds a man asleep with his sword belt by his pallet. She grabs it, wrapping it twice around her waist as she runs. She has heard no clash of steel from the direction of the gate, and it worries her. The hoofbeats are louder, she hears when she dashes out of the other side of the keep. They seem more centralized in front of the castle as well. She takes the stairs to the battlements two at a time until her skirts almost trip her up. The castle wall extends to her right; to her left is one of the towers that rises over the main gate. A guard is sprawled on the ground; she does not know if he is dead, but there is blood.

Marian tightens her hand on the sword at her side, draws a breath, and steps into the darkness of the tower. She prays frantically for her eyes to adjust, for she can hear him, she knows it is him, pulling at the chains that bind the winding mechanism for lifting the castle gate.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gratuitous post-2x13 wish-fulfillment. Marian's not dead, and she and Guy have a swordfight. And sex.

"You are despicable."

In three long strides Guy is across the room and shoving her against the wall with a hand squarely on her ribs. It knocks the wind out of her. " _I_ am despicable?" he says leaning close, his voice harsh. “I have only ever been loyal to my master. But you,” he says, and he almost spits the word, “ _you_ are two-faced, a liar, sinful as Eve, with convictions you don't understand.”

As she catches her breath, Marian works her hand across her belly until she finds the hilt of her sword. She draws it sharply, catching him with the pommel in the soft spot underneath his ribs and nearly throwing him to his knees. He catches himself, gasping for breath, and places a hand on his sword. The anger in his eyes is smoldering, but in control for a moment as he asks, “Are you sure you want to do this, Marian?”

“I am not afraid of you.” She twists the sword, seating it properly in her grip, and there is the whisper of steel on leather as he draws his own.

“So be it.”

It is reminiscent of a hundred of their fights, a hundred fights where she had fought desperately against his larger size and greater strength, heart pounding more with fear that she should be found out than fear she would be hurt and always, always the fierce joy of her competence, bravery, of adrenaline and pride.

He forces her out of the tower and onto the battlements but she is not afraid; she has fought in closer quarters. He is strong but she is quick; if she can avoid a direct blow low on her blade she will be okay.

They dance back and forth, parry, feint; neither of them have a shield so this is all about the steel. Guy turns his blade so her thrust slides off; she twists and brings the tip of her blade up to deflect him from her shoulder. This sword is heavier than the one she is used to, and she's afraid she will tire too quickly. But his injury is still healing, and that should make them equal, at least.

Guy swings and she moves to parry, but he drops his blade and she's not yet prepared to attack, so before she can lower the tip of her sword he's come back from the other direction and rammed her hard in the upper arm with his acorn pommel.

Luckily it's not her sword arm, but she sucks in a breath. It is shocking; besides the pain it is the fact that this is the first time they've fought when he's known it's her, the first time he's knowingly hurt her. He realizes it too, and for a moment he stands in shock until she's bitten back the pain and swung her sword low, which he parries only just in time.

It's been months since Marian fought and she feels her lack of strength, but the movements come back easily to her. She darts forward and backward but the fighting is becoming closer, nastier; when she parries his blade she doesn't riposte, she elbows him in the gut. When he meets her blade he pushes back, the blades sliding together in a shriek of steel that sends a shiver down her spine. She can't fight against his greater strength but instead of using his advantage he kicks her back, hard. There has been no blood drawn, but she wonders if they're even trying for that any more.

“I have to say I was surprised you weren't announced already as the Countess of Huntingdon. I would have thought Hood would have rushed to marry you after your tender declaration before the king.”

Marian grunts with effort and ignores him.

“Unless he's more of a friend to the king than you thought he was.”

She swings, hard, and it would have been deadly if Guy hadn't pivoted back in time. He takes advantage of her momentum and shoves her face-first into the wall, letting her go only when a wild kick meets his kneecap.

“So where is your handsome hero? Sent you home while he plays with the boys? Not a very grateful way to thank you for saving Richard's life.”

“They stayed to conclude the peace treaty with Saladin. They're on their way home now.”

“But you're not with them. After all that risk, all that lying, all that double-dealing. It must have been so hard for you—”

“I did what I thought was right,” she declares through clenched teeth, catching him square on the chest with the flat of her blade.

“How very Christian of you,” he wheezes, and his voice still manages to be mocking.

“You are a better man than this,” she says, and then he's knocked her feet out from under her. He leans close, and she's not as afraid of him as she should be as she struggles to draw breath.

“I could have been. Once.” His eyes are pained and accusing. “But it is too late for that, Lady Marian,” he says, jeeringly emphasizing her title.

She punches him in the face. As he rears back she is able to roll away, get to her feet, regrip her sword. “I have never believed a man to be beyond redemption. Do not be the one to make me change that belief.”

“Don't deny your culpability,” he says with a sneer, edging towards her. She cringes at the bruise that is quickly developing on his cheekbone. “You made me believe that you cared for me, that there was a possibility—that when I had position, stability, you would help me forget the things I've done; become a better man.” His voice has gone from harsh to wild and her feelings sway violently between outrage and sympathy. She tightens her grip on the sword as he approaches. “You are the one that pushed things past the point of no return. You are the one that has damned us with your words.”

“I said those words to save the king,” she says, and her voice is not as controlled as she had wanted.

His eyes widen as he catches meaning she hadn't really intended to reveal.

He swings the blade up sharply, at an angle she doesn't expect, and it catches her sword before she can parry or dodge, forcing it and her hands up over her head. The blade smashes against the stone with a dull clang that rattles through her hands and she loses her grip on the sword. It falls away with a clash and Guy grasps her wrists before she can move. He drops his own sword and takes one of her wrists with his newly free hand, forcing them high and pressing her against the wall with his forearms, chest, hips, thighs.

“Did you lie then?”

She is truly frightened at the ferocity on his face, but then she meets his eyes and a current of energy snaps between them. Suddenly, she is aware of every point where his body presses against hers.

“Did you?”

She doesn't know what to say. She was telling the truth, but suddenly she's not so sure he wouldn't just push her back over the wall if she says that. The thing was, it wasn't the whole truth. “I—”

They stare at each other, tense, breath caught in throats—

and then he presses his hips in and she tilts up her chin and they are kissing, hard and hot and wet. It isn't nice kissing; their teeth clash and she bites his lip and his hands on her wrists are so tight they start to hurt.

"Let go of my hands," she says, when he frees her mouth to move his attentions lower.

"No," he says, and he bites the white curve of her shoulder.

She moans when she thought she would have protested. Guy's response is immediate. He kisses up her neck, hard kisses that will leave bruises or teeth marks, leaving her throat raw from his stubble. He flicks his tongue over her jaw, her earlobe, and Marian feels molten fire bubble up from her core. This is so different from how he had always been with her; almost always had she been the cool queen, he the supplicant begging for her charms, easily outmanoeuvred or waved away. But no longer; with flesh and steel he has forced the fire to run through her, a fire she had only just felt warm her when she bickered with Robin and then he grinned that infuriating grin and leaned in to kiss her.

Now she is melting and rigid at the same time, and he grasps both wrists with one hand again and runs the other down her arm, down her side, his thumb brushing suggestively over the curve of her breast . . . and then he drops his hands. He steps away, panting, eyes dark and mouth swollen and expression somewhere between lust and uncertainty.

"What are you doing?" she asks, knowing she should knee him in the groin and run.

"Giving you a choice," he says, voice low and wicked, and the fire shoots from her stomach to down between her legs. She almost screams in frustration, and when she sees his eyes glint she reaches forward and grabs the front of his jacket, not caring that her nails dig into the leather. She hauls him back to her and he laughs against her lips but she doesn't care because that fire, that fire is blazing hotter with him pressed against her again, especially because she can feel him hard against her hip.

His hands are hot against her back, and then one comes between them to tip her breast out of her bodice. He rolls the nipple between thumb and forefinger and she moans against his lips, and then he pinches hard. She rakes her nails down the back of his neck and he draws breath sharply. Marian feels grimly satisfied until she realizes he has pulled her skirt up and is running a hand up her inner thigh.

Yes! she thinks the same moment she freezes. But his fingers are ghosting over her sex, then rubbing just firmly enough to make her knees go weak, and then pressing inside her. She cries out and he lays a finger over his lips - quiet - even as he continues the insistent motion of his fingers that sets her limbs buzzing and her mind spinning.

Marian fumbles at the clasps on his jacket, fed up with the leather that protects him while she is so exposed, and she has almost gotten the second clasp when he bends down and takes her nipple in his mouth. She shudders with pleasure but shoves him away, even so bemoaning the loss of his fingers.

He smirks, and she narrows her eyes. Then he grips her by the upper arms and pushes her back, hard, and she only remains upright because he is holding her. He shoves her into the tower room and onto one of the benches that sits against the wall. She reaches forward, pushing his jacket up with one hand ( _skin_ ) and grabbing the top of trousers with the other. She pulls him towards her and kisses the hard planes of his abdomen, savoring the salty taste of his skin, biting as well as kissing, enjoying his gasps when she lets her tongue dip below his waistband.

She works at the lacing of his trousers until she can slip her fingers in sideways over his pelvis. He almost jerks away but she catches his arse and holds him close. She eases his cock out of his leather trousers, determined to make him as incapacitated as he had made her. Guy sighs in pleasure as she runs her lips lightly along his length, breathing out. Then she eases his foreskin back, flicking her tongue over the tip of his cock, and she can feel his abdominal muscles ripple under her fingers.

She laps the sides of cock, cupping his balls, satisfied that now control is hers—until Guy pulls away, sliding her skirt up and spreading her legs in one smooth movement. He is tall, and the bench low, so he leans over her, jerking her hips forward as he pushes into her. Marian cries out, at his size, at the pleasure that rolls through her, at his rough, sharp thrusts.

"Are you trying to get caught?"

Marian angles her hips and the wicked grin melts from his face. She hooks a leg around his waist, inviting him closer, deeper, and he obliges, fucking her harder and she slips her hands up under his jacket and shirt to feel his skin, press her nails into his back.

And then there are shouts below. She had forgotten the hoofbeats in the fight, but now they are almost directly below them. Voices begin to rise from the castle as well, and suddenly she recalls Little John and Vaysey. Marian curls her hand around Guy's neck, their eyes locking in the semi-darkness of the tower. He is hilt-deep in her, breathing heavily.

“Stay with me,” she whispers.

*

His eyes go wide and then a beat later hers do, too. Even in the half-light he can see the color spill across her face. His first instinct is to pull away, to run—he does not trust her—but he can see she's as taken aback with her words as he is. Guy shakes his head slowly, trying not think of her tight and hot and wet around him, of how all of her curls around him, beckoning him closer. “I do not want to be friends, Marian. I do not want to be allies. I want all of you—” he traces a finger across her brow, down her cheek, as if to say, _mind too_ — “or nothing at all. And I do not,” he continues slowly, doing his best to keep himself still, “want sacrifices or exchanges or politics.”

*

Her mind has already gone there, the castle for her, but she throbs with his stillness; she shifts a little under him. How can she _think_ when he is there, over her and in her and eyes open and jacket undone and—

“Yes,” she is saying, and it comes out with a breath, a little sigh, and she's not really sure what it means, only that it feels right. He is still, his eyes sweeping over her face and she arcs up against him and hisses “yes” again as his eyes close. When they open, they are predatory, and his mouth curves in a dangerous smile. He leans forward and kisses her hard, then fucks her until she screams.

*

Marian is curled in Guy's lap when Allan ducks into the tower room. His eyebrows rise halfway up his forehead, but he recovers quickly. “You all know there's some sort of commotion going on down there?”

“I have some idea, yes.”

“Well, there's soldiers on their way up here, and Beaumont's not gonna be very happy to see one of his men stabbed.”

“I'll take care of that,” Marian says suddenly, as she plaits her tangled waves into a neat braid. She looks up at Guy seriously. “You should get your things. I want to leave as soon as this is over.” And then her face softens and he lowers his head to kiss her and there is still surprised delight when she kisses back.

The commotion is over quickly. Though there is a large number of men outside the walls, they have no siege engines and can do nothing with the castle gates closed tight. Beaumont tries to reason with them, but it is only when his soldiers start shooting arrows into the crowd that they begin to disperse. Alais's white face, high in the keep, disappears from her window.

Guy's got no clue what Marian says to the Seneschal, but he lets him leave with them, and only gives Guy a thoughtful expression when he passes. Vaysey is already in the dungeon, and he wonders if he'll ever see him again.

*

He glances back towards the castle for a moment, then she tugs his hand impatiently. His uncertain gaze meets her confident one, and the ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. It's not going to be easy—the stormy expression of the big man is certainty of that—but her fingers twine themselves through his and that flutteringly delicate hope she has long inspired in him grows stronger, steadier. She leans back against the ropes that line the wharf, pulling him into her, claiming his lips, and for a few moments they have no cares but this.  



End file.
